A Sexual Education Novel
By: S.L. Jennings
Print Release: February 24th, 2015
Avon/William Morrow Books
Right now, you’re probably asking yourself two things:
Who am I?
And, what the hell are you doing here?
Let’s start with the most obvious question, shall we?
You’re here, ladies, because you can’t f*ck.
Oh, stop it. Don’t cringe. No one under the age of 80 clutches their pearls.
You might as well get used to it, because for the next six weeks, you’re going to hear that word a lot. And you’re going to say it a lot.
Go ahead, try it out on your tongue.
Ok, good. Now where were we?
If you enrolled yourself in this program then you are wholly aware that you’re a lousy lay. Good for you. Admitting it is half the battle.
For those of you that have been sent here by your husband or significant other, dry your tears and get over it. You’ve been given a gift, ladies. The gift of mind-blowing, wall-climbing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex. You have the opportunity to f*ck like a porn star. And I guarantee, you will when I’m done with you.
And who am I?
Well, for the next six weeks, I will be your lover, your teacher, your best friend, and your worst enemy. Your every-f*cking-thing. I’m the one who is going to save your relationship and your sex life.
I am Justice Drake.
And I turn housewives into whores.
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“So, what … we’re getting makeovers? We’re supposed to change who we are just so they’ll be attracted to us?”
“Not necessarily. Think of yourselves as perfectly wrapped presents. All of you spend thousands on your appearance, so there’s not much we need to work on there. We just want to present the package in a different way. Not change what you have, just exploit it. Let me show you. Mrs. Rose?”
I leave my place behind the lectern and go to stand in front of her with an outstretched hand. Reluctantly, she places hers in mine and stands, letting me lead her to the front of the room.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asks, her eyes darting around the room nervously as I move behind her.
“Relax, Mrs. Rose. As you all have read in the documents you’ve signed. I will never physically harm or violate you. In some instances, though, I will have to touch you. Guide you. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, simply say stop. That’s all. Now … may I touch you, Mrs. Rose?”
Her shoulders rise and fall with her labored breaths as she anticipates the feel of my hands on her. This is the tricky part. I know what I do to these women. I know what they see, what they feel from me. They’re used to powerful men—they’re attracted to them—and that fact alone draws them to me. Add in the denim-blue eyes and six-foot two-inch dominating physique, and I’m reduced to high-priced man candy for the next six weeks. That’s why I keep things very professional. My tone is always clipped and straight to the point. While I try to be cordial, I’m never overly friendly. So, while they may be attracted to the physical, I’m too much of an asshole to warrant unwelcomed advances from lonely housewives.
“Yes,” she breathes. I can almost visualize her eyelids fluttering closed.
As I tower over her from behind, the callused pads of my fingertips lightly graze the sides of her arms, raking over her skin in a harsh whisper. She shivers under my touch, her breath coming out in quick pants while the rest of the women stop breathing altogether, their mouths agape in lustful envy.
I move in closer, letting my front mold into her back. She shudders for just a second before melting into the hard contours of my chest with a sigh. “You have amazing arms, Lacey,” I say just above a whisper, my lips only a breath away from her ear. “Toned, tan, smooth. Your shoulders are sexy. Has anyone ever told you that? Imagine hands massaging them—gently at first—kneading away the day’s tension. Then a little more pressure. Harder. Then harder still. Feels good, doesn’t it? Imagine lips trailing kisses across them before moving up to your neck. A tongue snakes out to taste you … so sweet … so soft …”
Just as an anxious noise escapes her throat, I take a step back, causing Lacey to fall backward into my arms, channeling her inner Scarlett O’Hara. Before she gets too comfortable, I set her on her feet, making it known that I’m nobody’s Rhett Butler.
Her face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, Lacey quickly staggers to her seat as ten women pelt her with questioning stares.
“Now,” I bellow with a loud clap of my hands, capturing their attention. “That was the art of attraction—working with what you’ve got. Playing up your strengths and being confident in your sexuality. Any more volunteers?”
Eleven hands shoot to the sky. No, wait … make that fourteen. A few ladies are double-fisting.
S.L. Jennings is a New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of contemporary and paranormal romance, reality TV junkie, obsessive coffee drinker and collector of crazy.
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